


Grayscaled

by unholygrass



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Character Death, Death Scene, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Resurrection, Self-Sacrifice, Suicidal Hank Anderson, Supportive Partners, Temporary Character Death, kamski isn't the absolute worst, realistic grieving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: The line between life and death is blurry for androids. In this case, it happens to be Connor's saving grace, and Markus's second chance at building the life he dreamed of.orConnor sacrifices his life for Markus and dies in his arms.





	Grayscaled

**Author's Note:**

> get this shit outta my house oh my god its consumed my godamn soul. I can finally write other shit now that it's done. My beta cried while reading this. Check out her account at Mamichigo (She writes so FINE ASS SHIt) because she's the best.  
> Idk. I wanted to write something upsetting? But I'm also a baby and don't like making myself sad?  
> Here you go.

It was never supposed to be Connor.  
  
Markus knew the dangers— he’d survived Jericho and the raids— he’d taken the bullets, coughed up the blood, used himself as a shield for his people. From the very beginning he’d been willing to sacrifice his life for others, to put himself down on the wire and let them crawl over him. He’d learned to cherish each day of his life, and had accepted that if he were to die, that it would be so that his people could live.  
  
But he survived, and the ceasefire was called. They lived to see another day.  
  
Against his vehement protests, people seemed to think that his life was somehow worth more than the others’— that his words meant more. He was a protester, a revolutionary, but overtime he’d been molded into a politician. He’d  accepted the position simply because it was what his people needed, and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that their fight was anywhere but just getting started. If his people needed a leader in the capitol, then he would take their fight there.  
  
He didn’t love it. Most days he didn’t even like it. Politicians were stale and deceitful on the best of days, and wicked and cruel on their worst. They treated the fate of his people like a tool to get reelected, and it often took a lot of willpower to remain civil. He was a rebel stuffed into a stiff suit, made to play nice so his people wouldn’t be gunned down in the streets,  
  
But if nothing else, it is a peaceful existence. He may hate the meetings and double meanings, but it needed to be done, and he had long ago accepted that he would be the one to do it. He took the sacrifice and held it close, plastered on a smile and endured their arrogance. He was used to the oppression— it was the battle he fought so that the next generations wouldn’t have to— so that his loved ones wouldn’t have to.  
  
But it was always supposed to be Markus making the sacrifice. It was never supposed to be Connor.  
  
_God, it was never supposed to be Connor._  
  
He was used to holding Connor in his arms. He’d spent dozens of hours doing nothing but resting with Connor against his chest, mapping out the planes of his back with lazy touches and lingering fingers.  
  
Markus knows how much Connor weighs and how he will become infinitely heavier if he doesn’t want to get up. He knows that Connor is a heat leech, and he knows just how long it takes Connor to fall into standby. He knows that the best way to bring his stress levels back down to zero is through indisputable truths, and he knows how to scratch at the fine hairs at the base of Connor’s neck until he melts into goo.  
  
This weight, however, is entirely wrong. Markus only has enough time to press Connor’s face to his neck before they hit the floor, his arms encircling his partner desperately. His audio processors are still vibrating in his skull from the gunshots— there are people screaming, and he can see others tussling with each other nearby, most likely the security detail disarming the assassin.  
  
It’s all so absurdly loud that he almost misses the way Connor lets out a little shudder, teeth clacking against each other as he hisses.  
  
“No, no—” Markus moans, and the terror that is shooting through his nerves is so sharp that it hurts, makes him tug Connor against his chest until he’s sure death can’t get to him.  
  
Connor is unwieldy in his arms, too long and gangly to be contained. With him this close, Markus can feel how Connor’s thirium pump stutters dangerously from the lack of blood being fed into it, his body already starting to pour off heat as his systems fights against the damage he’d obtained.  
  
“Markus.” Connor is watching him, dark eyes drinking in the sight of his lover above him, knowing all too well it would be the last time he saw him.  
  
“I’m sorry, Markus.” When his mouth opens to speak, blue blood spills down his chin and stains his teeth. His grip on Markus’s arms tightens, and Markus can practically see millions of thoughts tumbling over each other in Connor’s mind. He reaches and cups Connor’s face in a fierce grip, like he can keep him from dying if he just holds on tight enough. The LED is warm beneath his thumb, and tears begin to blur his vision.  
  
“Connor, no,” He tells him, words falling out of his mouth without his permission. “No, _no_. You’re not dying, _absolutely not.”_   His muscles tighten further, his grip so fierce that, were Connor human, he’d leave wicked bruises. He hates how pliant Connor is in his arms, unmoving and listless. His Connor— who never stopped moving, who was always tapping or rubbing or twitching or shifting— is now still and exhausted. Is dying.    
  
Markus’s mouth opens but the words get trapped in his vocal processor, suffocated by the panic wrapping tightly around his soul. He can’t lose Connor. He can’t lose Connor. He can’t—    
  
Connor’s fingers are curling horribly into his chest— biting nail marks in his skin, and Markus can’t help but wonder how Connor could possibly die here when he had such a good grip on him.  
  
But then Connor bucks once, twice, in his arms, tossing his head to the side just in time for a mouthful of thirium to spill down his cheek, staining his collar blue. Markus can feel the blood pooling beneath them, thirium seeping into their suit slacks and gluing them together.  
  
The blue blood pouring out of Connor’s back is too slick— Markus’s hands are already tacky and wet, so thoroughly coated in blue that it looks almost as though they do not belong to him at all. He had watched enough of his people bleed to death during the revolution to know fatal wounds when he saw them, and the traitorous voice in the back of his head hisses Connor is going to die here.  
  
They’re too far— too far from Jericho, too far from more thirium, from a repair bay. They are too far to save Connor. He can tell from the glazed look in Connor’s eyes that they’ve only got moments left— he can feel the shutdown countdown looming at the back of his skull as though it’s his own.  
  
Simon and Josh are shouting at him wirelessly, fighting through the throng of people who are shoving to get out of the ballroom, but Markus has no mind for them.  
  
The skin on his hand recedes automatically and comes to meet the sleek white plates revealed on Connor’s face. Blue light glows where they touch and throws Connor features into harsh angles as their souls merge into one.  
  
They’d connected only minutes ago while slow dancing, but the urgency and fear present in their connection now makes him instantly lightheaded. He can feel the bullets lodged in Connor’s spinal cables, the thirium pumping life out of him and spilling onto the tiles. The agony of each of his internal biocomponents shutting down one by one is staggering, but all of it pales in comparison to the onslaught of devotion that rushes at him from Connor’s consciousness.  
  
It’s every moment they’ve laid in bed, fought by each other’s sides, laughed and yelled and wept. It’s every word passed from their lips and every goodnight kiss. It’s every argument and caress, every stolen smirk and moan, every nightmare and late night. It knocks around in his chest violently as he ducks his head, feverishly mashing his lips onto Connor’s, teeth clacking against each other. The body beneath him lets out an almighty shudder and he feels Connor fight to press up into him.  
  
They don’t need words— they never have— but Markus’ mouth is moving anyway, a mantra falling past his lips as he presses his forehead to Connor’s fiercely, eyes squeezing shut against the tears that dwell there. “I love you. I love you. I—”  
  
Connor’s voice regulator has already gone offline, but his voice still rings clear in Markus’s mind.  
  
_“I know, I’ll always know. I love you too.”_  
  
He stays connected all the way through the end, stays pressed up against Connor’s mind until it goes silent, clings to his consciousness until there is nothing there to grasp any longer. He feels the stuttering thrum of Connor’s thirium pump cease, his LED going dark. The glow from their connection disappears, and Markus finds himself reaching into a void for something that’s not there.  
  
He can’t bear to look and see where he knows empty brown eyes await him, so he stays hunched over on his knees with Connor clutched close, cheeks pressed together, and doesn’t fight the agony that overcomes him. It threatens to swallow him, dump him out and bury him in cement to waste away.  
  
And for the moment, he lets it.  
  
———  
  
It takes Simon and Josh awhile to pull him from Connor’s body. The moment Connor’s consciousness had left, he’d known he was clinging to an empty husk, but even so, separating from him feels like a betrayal— like he’s abandoning Connor to face death on his own. It makes no sense, and he knows it’s foolish, but nothing makes sense in that moment anyway.  
  
He sits on the stage where the band had played, hunched over himself, hands hanging between his legs. His head is pulsing, everything pushing at the seams, like his skull might split open and his insides will ooze down his neck. He feels like gravity has increased upon his body exponentially, and while he knows his motor functions have full functionality, he isn’t sure he would be able to move.  
  
Dozens of people are rushing about, officers moving to and fro as they fight to preserve their crime scene. Impossibly bright red and blue lights spill in from the ballroom’s massive windows, overpowering the bright chandeliers that dangle from the ceiling. A long line of police cars are lined up outside, fending off noisy onlookers desperate for a glimpse of the drama inside.  
  
There are things he needs to be doing. The police would need to know what happened. Security would have to be increased and an investigation opened. Jericho would need to be informed that an assassination attempt had been made on him and that they had lost one of their most influential leaders. News channels would need to be answered and statements made. He needed to tell Connor’s loved ones and Hank—  
  
The slice of guilt and pain that squirms through him at remembering Hank is so powerful that he drops his head from his shoulders and lets it hang. From this angle he can see the blue blood drenching his slacks and shirt, and he has to close his eyes.  
  
Hank is Connor’s family. Markus knows the man well— after Carl, Hank was probably Markus’s favorite human— brash and honest, but loyal and caring under the faux crude exterior. He knows what Connor’s death will do to him— just how hard it will be to keep Hank alive.  
  
Markus’s mind throbs just at the thought of it.  
  
He looks up again, mindlessly taking in the scene in front of him. Someone had placed a sheet over Connor’s body. A weak panic begins to fester in his chest. Connor was under that sheet.  
  
Connor was dead.  
  
Simon sits next to him silently, elbows on his knees in a position similar to Markus. He doesn’t offer any condolences— he knows from personal experience that there are no words for this. But he doesn’t budge, and when people come too close to the stage Simon glares at them until they walk away. Markus suspects that Josh is off doing all the things that he himself should be doing, and any other day he would feel bad about that, but now he doesn’t have the energy to.  
  
He wishes North was here with all of her fiery anger. Wishes he could fall victim to the intoxication of her vengeance— he would prefer North’s fury over this intense ache any day.  
  
Maybe then he would be able to fall into finding out why this had been done— find out just who had dared to take Connor away from him. The anger would be productive— he would be able to work, to take care of business. He can do nothing in his current state, hollow and brittle, just waiting for the next breeze to carry him away.  
  
———  
  
He hears the lieutenant’s arrival at the crime scene before he sees it. Hank has always been a loud person in mind and body, and now is no different. Markus hears shouts and realizes abruptly what is about to happen. He stands on instinct, feet already carrying him across the slick tile to intercept Hank before he sees for himself just what was left of his remaining family.  
  
Hank is fast, but Markus is faster, and he manages to catch him in the doorway before he breaches the room, bodily blocking the sight of Connor’s body lying dead only a few feet away. A human wouldn’t stand a chance against the man’s terror-stricken strength, but Markus’s grip on Hank’s arms is tight enough to keep him from barreling past. The emotion in the man’s eyes flares dangerously. “Let go of me you fucker—”  
  
“Hank— don’t. You don’t need to see. _Stop—”_  
  
A slew of furious curses washes over him, but Markus doesn’t yield. “Hank, _please—”_  
  
They struggle a moment longer, and only once Markus realizes that the lieutenant won’t be stopped until he’s seen Connor with his own eyes does Markus finally release him. He stumbles backwards into the wall as Hank rushes forward to where Connor lays. Markus stands there, knowing he should be stopping this, that he should make Hank wait until they’d cleaned Connor up, made him look like the person he was and not the victim beneath that sheet, but he does nothing.  
  
He watches Hank crash besides Connor’s body with a sense of desolation, tears sliding down his cheeks once more as Hank pulls the sheet back and curls over himself, body beginning to shake at the sight of his dead partner.  
  
Despair is a funny thing, and currently it is picking away at Markus’s insides until he feels like he’s made of rubble, seconds away from crumbling onto the ground in a heap of broken biocomponents and blue blood.  
  
He’d lived through the worst parts of his people’s history— he should be used to the loss— to seeing that loss, but he’s not, and he never will be. It’s still painful and utterly soul consuming. For a brief second, he wishes he were a machine again, simply so he can escape the anguish washing over him.  
  
It’s too much. He wasn’t made for this. He can’t— He can’t.  
  
He does.  
  
He carries himself over to where Hank weeps on numb legs and drops down next to him. When Markus kneels, his shoulder brushes Hank’s, and he feels the man tense. He expects an explosion.  
  
The officers around them give them a wide berth, politely looking away from the suffering of yet another family broken.    
  
Markus realizes that he wants Hank to hate him. Connor had saved his life at the expense of his own. Markus hadn’t fired the gun, but he was the reason that Connor was dead. He had taken Connor from Hank’s life, and he deserved the loathing that came with it. Maybe it would make him feel something other than this all-consuming grief.  
  
“He spun me around, so that he took the bullets instead.” Markus’s voice is shaky, vibrating as his vocal modulator fought the instability that plagued his systems. “I’m—” He doesn’t have the words— years of public speaking mean nothing in front of this man. Apologizing isn’t enough. He can’t beg for forgiveness he doesn’t deserve— that he’s not even sure he wants.  
  
There are a million things he should be saying, but no thoughts actually form in his processor. In the end it doesn’t matter, because Hank doesn’t seem to care. The man simply bows his head further, one hand gently cupping the back of Connor’s neck before shaking his head, words spilling from his mouth.  
  
“Kid fucking loved you. If he decided...” The words turn into a stifled sob, and Hank stops speaking. He’s shaking badly.  
  
Markus starts crying again. He feels like he may never stop.  
  
———  
  
Later, he finds himself back at Hank’s house, sitting on his couch, fingers buried in Sumo’s fur. He doesn’t remember the drive there, or even leaving the ballroom. It has only been four hours since the shooting, but he feels as though weeks have passed. His body is a thousand times heavier than before, as though his plasteel frame has been replaced with lead and stone.  
  
Every light in the house is on. People from the police station fill the hallways, moving in the kitchen and speaking quietly. Markus can hear both the front and back doors opening and closing frequently, and a steady thrum of voices echoing down the halls.  
  
He’s lucky that Sumo has decided to stay with him, considering he could easily be snuffing out each person who comes inside, receiving attention and pets wherever he turned. Instead, the dog stays seated partially in Markus’ lap, huge head tucked against his shoulder as he mindlessly shifted his fingers through the dog’s fur. The gesture is more for himself than anything— he can remember Connor telling him how comforting it was to simply pet a dog. Markus had believed him.  
  
Josh is sitting nearby, but Simon and North are both missing, most likely tending to the shitfest that is about to explode in Detroit with one leader of Jericho gunned down at a charity ball. It makes Markus’ stomach twist. He’s a fucking mess, but he still has responsibilities to tend to, things to be done and people to address. However, just thinking about all the things that need arranging makes his processors throw errors until he freezes up for a few minutes until he manages to stop thinking altogether.  
  
Sumo whines against him, pulling away and doing two circles before dropping all 170 pounds into Markus’ lap. Markus waits for him to settle before running his fingers through his fur again. He hears Josh shift next to him.  
  
“Markus?”  
  
He makes a vague noise in the back of his throat. Even his tongue feels heavy.  
  
“Do you want to go to Carl’s?”  
  
He sits in silence for a moment before answering, words coming without much conscious thought. “I don’t know.” Thinking is hard and making any decisions for himself is worse.  
  
Josh doesn’t respond.  
  
There are things Markus’s should be doing. He should be looking after Connor— helping decide where his biocomponents and systems would be donated to— where he would be laid to rest—  
  
He doesn’t move.  
  
———  
  
Time passes in strange batches that Markus struggles to remember. Some moments last for centuries, while others pass lightning quick. He’s stuck in a strange loop of trying to do what he knows he should be— trying to do what’s best— while simultaneously too exhausted and too hurt to do anything at all. Sometimes the grief disappears for a few hours and he accomplishes a handful of little things before everything comes crashing on his head— triggered by some meager reminder of Connor, and then he’s toppled over by the ensuing Connor is dead.  
  
It’s agony. It leaves him feeling frail and sickly— Connor has been such a part of his life for so long that every part of his day— every part of Detroit and Jericho and his work is twisted with Connor’s existence. Everything is a reminder of what he’s lost. Even the most innocent things throw Connor’s death back in his face.  
  
The desk in his office, the one Connor found on the side of the road and proclaimed large enough to be worthy of a revolution leader. The dog down the street, who Connor had altered his route to work just to see. The bookshelf full of donated paperbacks in the common area of Jericho that Connor had suggested they install— they’re all stupid little reminders that make thinking too difficult and existing a conscious effort.  
  
He hasn’t been able to set foot back inside their apartment, and he has to have Simon go back to feed their fish. After that first night, even Hank’s house had been painful.  
  
Hank, who Markus is determined to keep alive. It’s a burdensome feat alone, and it becomes nearly impossible considering that Markus himself is drowning. Half the time he can’t keep his own head above water, but somehow he’s got to save Hank— a man so lost to grief that sometimes Markus finds it a miracle within itself that he’s made it as long as he had.  
  
It’s not healthy, the way they crash into each other. Markus cannot be Hank’s emotional support, not when he himself is teetering on the edge of destruction, but Hank doesn’t have anyone else, and in the end they break and crack and spill out around the edges. Markus fears leaving Hank alone at night, when the demons are the loudest and his ambition the lowest, but the alcohol and hate and grief always boils over, and they end up shouting until one breaks down entirely. Then they split to lick their wounds in private until the next night rolls around again.  
  
It hurts so much that sometimes Markus wonders if any of it is worth it.  
  
He knows it won’t always be this way, but in the climax, the future doesn’t matter.  
  
———  
  
Four days after Connor’s death, Markus goes to Carl’s.  
  
The house welcomes him cheerily, and the sound of his shoes clacking against the pristine tile of the foyer seems infinitely too loud. His mind tumbles over itself for a moment as he takes in the house— everything is exactly the same as the last time he’d been over, Connor in tow and fondness warming his smile. For years this house has remained throughout all the turmoil and hurt of its occupants. Markus’s entire life has been completely turned upside down and burned inside out, but this house is exactly the same. It’s almost as though it exists on a different plane of existence.  
  
It should be comforting that something in his life can prevail through anything— that some things are truly unchanging and stable.  
  
But instead it makes him bitter, like acid pressing down on his tongue. He feels his face twist with it and closes his eyes.  
  
It’s certainly not Carl’s fault— he should go and see him, just check in, so Carl knows that he’s dealing, that he’s okay—  
  
But he can’t make himself move further inside. It’s as though some invisible force has sunk its claws into him and rooted him on the spot. His feet refuse to move, and his mind spins on a strange axle of knowing what is right and knowing what he’s about to do anyway.  
  
He watches the shadows thrown from the stain glass warp silently through the trees before he turns and leaves.  
  
———  
  
He’s at Hank’s later that night when they get the call. Connor’s services are tomorrow— a funeral of sort, but designed by androids, for androids.  
  
He’s already spoken to Sharon, the head of Jericho’s memorial team, and she told him that in accordance to Connor’s wishes, they had already stripped the body of anything that could be donated to other androids in need. Tomorrow they would take what was left and melt it back down into carbon fiber to be recycled and donated. A portion of it was going to be saved and reformed into a small memorial to stand in the New Jericho warehouses as a reminder of just everything Connor had meant to the androids of Jericho.  
  
There’s a lot there that Markus hasn’t even attempted to process. Thankfully, everyone he deals with seems to pick up on the fact that he is in no position to be making decisions, and they’ve taken his wishes and ran with them under the guidance of Simon and Josh.  
  
Once he gets his feet back under himself, he’ll have to figure out some way to thank them all.  
  
He and Hank sit on the couch where they pretend to watch an old movie on TV. Tonight, Hank’s anger has mellowed into a purer form of sadness, and while Markus supposes it’s progress, the silence is deafening. At least with the shouting, he could focus himself into something other than the gnawing hole that is digging into his chest.  
  
They both startle when the doorbell rings. People had been coming by regularly, but rarely unannounced. Markus stands and opens the door, brows raising in surprise at the figure waiting on the other side.  
  
Chloe is wrapped in a thick shawl to fight off the cold of winter, and snowflakes stick to her hair as she steps into the house. Her LED spins an anxious yellow, and Markus can feel the trepidation rolling off of her in waves as though it is a palpable thing.  
  
He had been expecting her to show at some point— she and Connor had found themselves connected through the unconventional means of their past and formed a tentative friendship from it— but he hadn’t expected her to show her face at eleven PM the night before the requiem.  
  
“I’m sorry about showing up without any warning,” she tells them, voice carrying into the house on the wind. She gives him a tight little smile, looking rattled.  
  
Thankfully, Markus’ voice acts without his conscious thought. “It’s alright. Is something wrong?” Sumo has come up to sniff her out, and she offers a hand for his inspection. He gives a noncommittal huff before going back to his dog bed. Markus can sense Hank watching them from the couch.  
  
“No, no, it’s— well. It’s a bit complicated,” She tells him, declining to shed her cloak. “Elijah asked me to come fetch you.” She obviously struggles with her words for a moment, eyes darkening and biting her lip. “He thinks he can recommission Connor and upload his memories.”  
  
She doesn’t flinch when Hank stands up abruptly, stalking forward on heavy feet, cheeks flushed from whiskey. “What the fuck are you sayin’, exactly?”  
  
“Elijah believes he can bring Connor back to life.”  
  
———  
  
Markus keeps his eyes closed while he appreciates the heat blasting him in the face from the cab. His sensors tell him it’s 20 degrees outside, but his body feels like it’s frozen stiff. His mind is tumbling over itself uselessly, repeating the same thoughts and phrases in a spinning cyclone.  
  
He should be elated. He should be ecstatic and vibrating with excitement— maybe crying, maybe laughing.  
  
But he’s not. He’s not elated at all— in fact, if he had to identify the emotion in his brain in that moment, he would say he’s panicking.  
  
So, he speaks. “Chloe, how did Kamski say he could bring Connor back? His body couldn’t be rebooted. His memories were corrupted on the blue screen. Even if we transplanted his code, his systems would be overwritten on startup.” He knows this for a fact— Jericho’s most talented technicians, many from Cyberlife itself, had spent two days trying to see if Connor’s consciousness could be salvaged, his body repaired. Markus had already known what they would find— he had personally felt Connor’s soul slip away, but he had let them try to resurrect him anyway because sometimes Markus was just fucking wrong.  
  
She tucks her hands into her lap, a pretty frown tugging at her lips. “I’m not sure. He didn’t say.”  
  
Hank is watching them both through glassy eyes. He’d already downed half a bottle of Jack’s before Chloe’s arrival. Markus is relieved they convinced him to call a cab instead of attempting to drive while still drunk.  
  
Markus weighs her words in his mind. They couldn’t possibly be using Connor’s old body. Kamski couldn’t have had access to it, let alone Connor’s internal AI engine.  
  
Connor was among the brand of androids who dealt with extremely sensitive information— he had access to local and international databases. He was privy to sixteen different federal agencies, including the State Department and the Department of Defense, and was constantly in communication with the FBI, DPD, and APB systems. He was designed to overwrite his entire memory log upon deactivation in order to prevent leaks of sensitive information. The deletion sequence could be overridden, but his override had become decommissioned with Cyberlife’s fall.  
  
But, if what Chloe had said was right, Kamski thought he could get around it.  
  
“Are we sure—“ Hank started, breaking Markus out of his musing.  “Are we sure bringing Connor back to life is good? Is it— what Connor would want?” Markus looks up at him, and Hank looks away. “I don’t fuckin’— ...fuck.”  
  
Neither Markus nor Chloe speak. Hank is obviously gathering himself and trying to figure out how to verbalize his thoughts. He seems to give up and try again. “Connor prided himself on his humanity. He would tell me all the time about how—” He rubs a hand over his face viciously. “He told me once, how much he hated the idea of being replaced. After we found the other dormant RK800s— he told me how much he hated that he was designed to be fuckin’... destroyed and replaced constantly. ‘Said it made him feel disposable. If we just— bring him back—” He stops again, but Markus thinks he’s starting to understand.  
  
It’s true. Upon Connor’s recommendation, the remaining RK800 line had been scrapped for parts. None of the units had any software installed— Connor existed as a singular AI engine, and until his program was installed within them, they were nothing but lifeless shells. There was nothing inside of them to even activate, let alone deviate. Markus had consulted Connor for everything concerning handling of the RK800 line, but it was clear that their existence unnerved him.  
  
But this was different. They weren’t replacing Connor. They were reuploading him.  
  
Right?  
  
Just the thought of how grey everything was— an all-consuming theory, a possible moral dilemma that Markus had learned to hate because there are no right answers, and someone always ends up hurt.  
  
Chloe answers Hank, “Death for androids is not as black and white as it is for humans. It is far more difficult to proclaim an android dead than it is to do so for a human, and it is often not a straight-line process either. We still have a lot of startups and researchers working on establishing a basis of life in androids because our physiology is so different than that of other sentient organisms.”  
  
“Okay— so the line is blurry. What the fuck does that mean for Connor?” Hank asks.  
  
Markus answers, “Connor couldn’t be reactivated. His body was too damaged. Even if we replaced all his parts, his software was corrupted upon the hard shutdown. His memories and deviancy— the things that made up his consciousness... they’re gone.”  
  
“They were,” Chloe interjects. “Until last night. Elijah's been... monitoring the remainder of Cyberlife’s servers since the crash, and a few days ago a massive file was uploaded onto their drives. It was so heavily encrypted that it took him a few days to even decipher what he was looking at. It’s impossible to open without an override, but Elijah recognized the underscript. It’s Connor’s software, and it needs Markus’ override.”  
  
Markus closes his eyes. He feels like someone has reached into his body and twisted all of his insides with a fist, tangling him and setting him up backwards. “How did Connor upload himself? He couldn’t have had the processing power—” His voice fails him as he recalls the feeling of Connor’s life draining out between his fingers, the way Connor had bucked against the blue blood spilling through his lips.  
  
There was no way that Connor had had the power to upload like that. He’d barely had the strength to talk.  
  
Markus hadn’t thought Connor still even had access to the servers.  
  
“I’m not sure.” Chloe admits. “But Elijah has his theories.”  
  
Hank settles back in his seat, a frown finding his face. “And we’re just supposed to trust this asshole?”  
  
Chloe looks at him apologetically but does not answer.  
  
————  
  
Kamski can’t be entirely bothered to actually explain Connor’s resurrection to them, but Markus wasn’t really expecting him to anyway. He tries to pay attention to what he’s saying, but he finds his mind is too preoccupied with the idea that maybe this wasn’t the end— that Connor was nearby, that they could bring him back.  
  
Kamski opens his lab to them, leading them in without looking to see if they’re following. Chloe tries to smooth over his eccentrics, but Markus has no mind to pay attention to the man’s oddities— not when his eyes land on where Connor is hanging from an assembly rig in the center of the room, eyes closed and skin missing.  
  
It’s obvious he hasn’t been activated yet— all animation has been suspended, and he looks by all means like a lifeless doll without his skin, hair, and clothes. It’s certainly not Connor’s old body— ignoring the damage he’d obtained the night of his death, Connor still had messy patch jobs from years of working as a revolution leader and as an officer of the law. Before his death, Markus had been able to trace the gouges in Connor’s plasteel chassis where knives had cut through and marked him, feel the strange texture of the melted carbon fiber where Connor had patched his own bullet holes.  
  
This body is shiny and flawless, straight off the assembly line.  
  
But Markus knows that face and body almost as well as he knows his own, if not better. The lithe shoulders and athletic thighs, delicate fingers and strong jaw— it’d be impossible for that body to belong to anyone else.  
  
Markus hears Hank’s shocked “Jesus Christ,” from somewhere behind him, and something in the back of his mind realizes that the man had probably never seen Connor without his skin before. There’s probably a level of damage control he should be initiating, but he can’t for the life of him begin to think of what that might entail— not when Connor was steps away.  
  
Something giddy bubbles up inside of him, something familiar and foreign at the same time. He can’t help but move up to the rig, so close that his chest nearly brushes the smooth planes of plasteel that make up Connor’s chassis. Questions linger on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to ask them.  
  
Hank ends up doing the honor anyway. “Where the hell did you get the body? All the RK800s were broken down and donated—”  
  
Kamski stands behind a desk composed of eleven monitors and six terminals. He doesn’t bother actually looking up from whatever he’s feeding into his computers when he speaks. “A friend of mine contacted me after he found the body in transit after the ceasefire. It was on its way to a weapons expo in Sweden. I took the liberty of taking it off his hands.”  
  
Not totally legal, but not the most outrageous story either. Markus doesn’t quite believe it, but there will be time for that later. Either way, the body was here— exactly where they needed it.  
  
A dark tendril of doubt worms around in Markus’ chest, and he spins away from where he had been examining Connor’s face to pin Kamski with a glare. “And you’re doing all of this— reuploading Connor— out of the goodness of your heart? What’s in it for you?”  
  
Finally, Kamski looks at them. His smile is far too shark-like for Markus’ liking. “I want to see if I can.” It makes Markus snort. There was a large suspicion that the entire sentient-android debacle came from Kamski’s meddling ‘Just to See If He Could’. The idea that he is reuploading Connor for the same reason isn’t too ridiculous— the fact that he happens to be helping people is just a consequence for something he wants to do anyway.  
  
There is a chance that he has been meddling with this body before Connor’s death— testing and playing with it to see how far its code could be pushed. Markus seriously doubts that it had been simply sitting in storage all this time— but they don’t really have any other option except to take what he is offering. Markus would rather have Connor and battle whatever Kamski had downloaded into this body than not have Connor at all.  
  
Kamski seems to be reading his mind, and something in his gaze changes before he looks back to his screens. He lets out a very put-on sigh. “And Chloe happens to be fond of him. God forbid I displease her.”  
  
Markus flashes a glance at Chloe at that, but her expression hasn’t changed from the soft pensiveness she donned upon entering the room.  
  
It is strange to watch Kamski work— he seems almost like a different man. Markus was used to watching the suave, aloof millionaire he played on interviews, not the scientist that stood before him, working as though in a trance, trying to get the results he wanted from unruly software.  
  
He doesn’t understand, and in that moment, he doesn’t want to. He just wants Connor back, and he wants to take him home. Maybe a few months from now, after he’s got his head on straight again, he will attempt to unravel the mystery that is Elijah Kamski.  
  
By now Hank has wandered closer as well, looking over the rig where Connor is suspended with narrowed eyes. He seems displeased, but he doesn’t offer his opinion for once.  
  
“I’ve already uploaded the engines and memory software. There’s an 11% corruption rate as of now, but once the download starts it will lower to 7.”  
  
Markus watches Hank chew on his pride for a moment before finally asking— “What does that mean exactly?”  
  
Chloe answers. “Some of his memories won’t line up exactly how they should, but very minorly, and it shouldn’t be enough to impede on his personality. It’s unavoidable considering how long the data was sitting in the servers.”  
  
She moves closer to where Kamski works and peers at one of the screens. “It will take twenty-two hours for Connor to process the entirety of his software— there’s a lot here.” She looks up at Markus, her eyes soft. “I know that Connor has been through some very stressful and upsetting things. You may want to keep a close eye on his stress levels until he’s done converting everything back into this new body.”  
  
He nods. “We can do that.”  
  
“Then let’s get started,” Kamski finally speaks, cutting off any other conversation they might have had. “Markus, your override.” He motions to a terminal to his left, and Markus lets the skin on his hand recede back before transferring over the script.  
  
There’s a moment of pause before anything happens, but Markus hears fans beginning to whirl inside of Connor’s body, and three indicators on the rig light up in fantastic shades of blue.  
  
Kamski sits back from his monitors and crosses his arms, watching the patterns that flicker on the assembly arms before seeming to settle, waiting for Connor to come online.  
  
The LED on Connor’s temple finally begins to glow, spinning a steady yellow while his processors boot up. His chest expands in a simulated sigh as his body begins to self-regulate, shifting minutely in the rig’s hold, synthetic muscles contracting and relaxing methodically. His skin crawls back over his body, painting him pale and freckled, moles dotting along his stomach and arms, neck and shoulders. His hair is disheveled and hangs limply over his eyes, wild as it comes into existence.  
  
Connor opens his eyes.  
  
He speaks before the fog has a chance to clear.  
  
“Markus?”  
  
It’s as though a horse has kicked him in the chest. He never thought he’d hear Connor say his name ever again.  
  
He reaches forward with no real mind of what he’s doing or who is watching. He only knows that he needs to touch Connor right this second, and grabs both of his shoulders tightly. Connor’s eyes are a little unfocused, a little blurry, as though he is looking through fogged glass. The rig releases him onto his own feet, and Markus steadies him when he sways.  
  
As much as Markus wants to simply scoop Connor into his arms and hold him there until the world backed the fuck off, he doesn’t. At this point he knows how Connor’s mind works— knows that sometimes when Connor’s stress was above 50% that touch could either be grounding or just enough to push him over the edge. So Markus holds off, doesn’t give into his want to swallow Connor’s body in his arms where he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go.  
  
Instead he drinks in the sight of Connor scanning the lab. Markus can practically see the gears turning in his mind, can see Connor fitting all the pieces together and creating a timeline for himself. His LED spins a heavy yellow with the occasional flash of red breaking its cycle.  
  
His eyes lock onto Markus. He blinks at him a few times before his entire body begins to tremble.  
  
And Markus can’t hold back anymore.  
  
Connor fits against his body exactly the same as before— his grip is just as strong, his arms just as tight— his head tucks perfectly against Markus’s neck just as it used to. This is the man he’d held through death, now resurrected and whole again in his arms.  
  
Connor’s trembling only intensifies as he sags against Markus’s chest, eyelashes fluttering. His voice is so soft that when he breathes out, Markus suspects he’s the only to have heard.  
  
“Markus.”  
  
“You’re okay,” He tells him lowly, pressing his lips into Connor’s temple as he speaks. “I’ve got you.”  
  
———  
  
It’s nearly five am by the time they leave Kamski’s, and the sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon at them. It fills the cab with warm hues of gold, dusting them all in a layer of light that hasn’t existed since the last week.  
  
Connor’s head is resting on Markus’s shoulder while he struggles to keep his eyes open. The clothes Chloe had brought out for him are a little tight around the shoulders and chest; twice now Markus has seen Connor pluck at the fabric unhappily. He suspects it’s the texture bothering him.  
  
The glow of the sunrise reflects off Connor’s eyes and brings out the warm specks in them. It paints his hair a rich auburn that just begs to be mussed. He’s still wracked with slight tremors, body wrangling itself as it fought to slot its stream of consciousness back together. The fight between body and mind was already straining on him, leaving him drained.  
  
It’s strange to see Connor so exhausted. All his energy reserves and system resources were going into thoroughly processing his memory banks and AI engines— leaving very little left for anything else like holding a conversation or...   sitting up.  
  
Markus is fully aware of the rare opportunity he has been blessed with. He is getting another chance with Connor— at having this life with the one he loves. He won’t be so foolish as to let any of that opportunity slip away. He vows in the cab never to disregard how fucking lucky he is.  
  
“Why is he shakin’ like that? Is he okay?” Hank speaks up from the other bench, eyes trained on them closely. Markus was aware of Hank’s gaze— in fact he has only seen him look away a handful of times since Connor came back online.  
  
“It’s because my body is... processing all of its previous command sequences and reestablishing its baseline. It takes... a lot of power and energy, and it is corrupting some of my... smaller autonomic nerves to release the heat built up in my body. It should go... away once I finish.” Connor’s voice is slightly strained but clear, his eyes somewhat glassy.  
  
Markus waits for him to finish before speaking. “He’s also very stressed.”  
  
“That too.”  
  
Hank takes in this information with a frown. “How long does this... thing take?”  
  
Connor checks something internally before speaking again. “Nineteen more hours.” He closes his eyes as a particularly violent shiver ravishes him and grits his teeth against it.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Markus asks softly, hand giving his shoulder a soft squeeze.  
  
“It’s... very overpowering. Everything is too much. Too... saturated. Too loud.” His fingers come up again to tug at his shirt. He lets Markus take his hand instead, holding it firmly.  
  
Markus glances up at Hank with a frown that he finds mirrored back at him. “We’ll see what we can do about that when we get home, kiddo.”  
  
———  
  
Hank’s entire house is dark, and the only light that permeates the room comes from the faint glow of the street lamps outside. Markus can hear the muffed snoring coming from behind Hank’s bedroom door. All other sounds in the house have been completely silenced— the continuous hum of the microwave and refrigerator had sent Connor’s stress levels up another twelve percent, so they’d decided to flip the breakers until Connor finally managed to slip into stasis.  
  
Which was exactly what Markus was trying to coax Connor to do. As an android with preinstalled combat routines, it was physically impossible for him to enter a resting mode until his system stress was below thirty points. At the moment he was hovering around a stubborn fifty-three, despite the calm of the house.  
  
He lays on Markus’s chest and still trembles minutely, occasionally squeezing his eyes shut against an onslaught of sensations only he can feel. They’d dug out some warm sweats and soft hoodie for Connor to change into before wrapping him in a heavy blanket and settling him down. Markus suspects that the only reason he allowed them to fuss over him was because he was too tired to fend them off. Touch doesn’t seem to be bothering him anymore now that he was out of the foreign clothes, though sometimes the wind would pick up and make the house creak, and the low decimal of it had made him practically draw into himself like a turtle.  
  
Markus wishes he could take some of the pain away from him, but he knows better. Any systems interacting with Connor’s AI would only pose a risk to stalling the download at this point, and he doesn’t want to risk drawing out this particular kind of misery any longer than necessary.  
  
So instead he holds Connor firmly and rakes gentle fingers through his hair, trying to help him stay calm. It’s a familiar routine that they’d mastered together, back when Markus watched rainstorms roll into the city with trepidation and Connor refused to bring a gun into their apartment for fear of his own hand.  
  
They lay on the couch for hours, just becoming familiar with the concept of each other again. Markus’s mind is still reeling— trying to process the fact that he had lost the most important thing in his life and then somehow gotten it back. A part of him suspects that he will never completely process it, and eventually it will just become their new normal.  
  
Connor’s fingers worm out from under the quilt sometimes, seeking Markus’s skin. He traces faint patterns there until he gets distracted, and the hand disappears again until next time. It’s such a Connor-like quirk that it makes Markus smile a little stupidly.  
  
Connor’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “Are you upset with me?”  
  
Markus’s brain stalls out for a moment before he looks down to where Connor’s dark eyes are staring ahead blankly, his finger’s lingering on Markus’s collarbone.  
  
Markus pauses for a moment to consider his response before answering. “No.” The word doesn’t feel quite right on his tongue. “A little, but not with you, not really.” That’s entirely too vague, so he focuses on organizing his words into something that would describe the turmoil in his chest.  
  
Connor shifts in his arms, sitting up some so he was closer to Markus’s face, searching his eyes while waiting for him to continue.  
  
“When you died—“  
  
Connor only flinches minutely. Markus has to pause again— he’s made himself uncomfortable.  
  
“I know why you did it. I know why you saved me. Once things settle down, I’ll show you everything.” Markus promises. “I can’t... I don’t ever want to be here without you, Connor. I don’t know how to make you understand that without just showing you.”  
  
Connor’s watching him with those huge brown eyes, shadowed with the strain of his system’s grinding. Markus relents. “It’s... not something we need to discuss now. Not while you’re like this.” He finally gets on some stable ground, reaching out and threading his fingers through the shorter hair at the base of Connor’s neck. “All you need to know right now is that _I love you.”_ He reaches forward and takes Connor’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together as he plants a kiss between his eyes.  
  
Connor is silent, but Markus can practically hear him thinking.  
  
“I love you, and I need you here with me.”  
  
Connor nods, his head moving in a quick little movement before he pushes himself forward forcibly, hiding his face against Markus’s throat. “I’m sorry.” It comes out strained and wobbly, and Markus tightens his hold on him.  
  
After a moment he can feel Connor’s tears begin to dampen his skin.  
  
———  
  
“Welcome home, Markus. Welcome home, Connor.” Carl’s doorway chimes at them as the door swings open automatically, inviting them inside. Connor’s hand is warm in Markus’s, and their shoulders brush together as they walk, both pulled close to one another by an invisible force. They separate only to shed their coats and shoes.  
  
Markus catches Connor’s hand again before he gets the chance to head towards the stairs to greet Carl and his caretaker upstairs. Connor turns to look at him, frowning when he notices the look on his partner’s face.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Connor aborts his path and steps back to where he stands, giving Markus his whole attention. “Markus?”  
  
He watches the shadows dancing on the floor from the stained glass for a moment longer before turning to where Connor is watching him. He looks so natural in this house, wearing Markus’s sweater and bathed in the window’s purples and reds.  
  
He doesn’t look at all like he’d died last week.  
  
Markus doesn’t have the words to explain how this house betrayed him, or how he couldn’t face his father in his grief— so he simply reaches out and offers his skinless palm. They’ve gotten better at this— sharing their hurts from the death. It only takes Connor’s advanced systems a moment to process Markus’s memory, and then he finds himself further wrapped up in Connor’s strong arms, his soft hair tickling Markus’s cheek.  
  
Connor plants a kiss on his scalp and behind his ear, tender and loving as he comforts him in the only way he knows how. Words often escape him, but his body is his weapon, always at his disposal, and he uses it to sooth the pains in Markus’s mind. This way Markus can feel just how alive Connor really is, solid and warm in his arms.  
  
Markus indulges himself, pulling Connor flush against him and soaking him in.  
  
They can’t make promises to never die, not in their line of work, but they do make promises to live, and for now it’s enough.  
  
———  
  
They’re going to be late to the state hearing, and yet Markus can’t bring himself to finish changing. Instead he’s busy watching Connor get ready— watches him slide a crisp white button up over his lithe back, adjusting the collar and beginning to button it with deft fingers as he eyes himself in the mirror.  
  
Markus finds himself doing this often— getting distracted by the sight of Connor anywhere nearby. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing— resting, smiling, shouting, fidgeting— it’s like Markus’s brain simply can’t absorb enough of him.  
  
He knows what it stems from— he’d watched Connor die, had thought that the memories he had were going to be the only ones he would ever get, and now that he has the opportunity to make more, as meaningless or small as they might be, he can’t help but to do so.  
  
So sometimes he stops whatever he’s doing, and just drinks in the sight of Connor alive and whole. It’s therapeutic in its own silly way.  
  
It’s only been three weeks since the shooting, but it’s high time they face the public eye once again. Simon and Josh have done a magnificent job at fending off the vultures, but it is time to jump back into the political game.  
  
Markus knows this— knows that so long as he asks for change, he has to be willing to work for it— and yet all he wants to do is tug Connor back down into their bed and devour him until the past month was lost in the throes of ecstasy and intimacy. It would be so easy too— to just stride over and flip Connor around, capture his lips and never ever let go. Connor would grumble about their responsibilities, but he knows that Connor doesn’t want to go to the courthouse any more than Markus does, and now more than ever they’d learned to cherish the connection between them, be it emotional or physical.  
  
Connor had yet to reach for his trousers— maybe if he was quick—  
  
_“Be there in ten,”_ Simon’s voice sounds in his head through an internal channel— he and Conor were sharing a car with him and North. Apparently, they wanted to get to the courthouse early.  
  
He realizes Connor is looking at him with a sly smirk that says he knows exactly what Markus is thinking. Sometimes he curses that Connor knows him so well.  
  
He loses his chance, because Connor grabs his pants and raises an eyebrow at him, just challenging him to make them late. “Good things come to people who wait, Markus.”  
  
“Exactly. I was just thinking that Simon and North wouldn’t mind waiting—”  
  
Connor steps into his suit slacks, pale thighs disappearing. “We can’t be late. We need to be at our best right now.”  
  
It’s true. The entire world is watching them— the leader of the android revolution was attacked, his partner killed and resurrected, and no one had enough information to cover all the missing links in the story. Media outlets and news stations were just itching to get their hands on them both, and they had all agreed that today would be the day they laid everything bare. It was yet another day of making history.  
  
“And I still need to do my hair.” Connor’s eyes twinkle knowingly, and he steps in front of where Markus sits on their bed. He rests his forearms on Markus’s shoulders. He looks good— poised and put together— but there’s a faint darkness lying beneath the mirth, a weary sort of sorrow that has yet to wash away. It lingers in his eyes when he holds still, only visible to those who bother to look closely.  
  
Markus suspects his own eyes look the same.  
  
But then Connor kisses him, moving so quickly that their noses mash together. It draws a silent sort of chuckle from his chest that Markus can feel more than hear. They slot together like they were designed to fit against one another, and Markus takes the chance to slide his hands under Connor’s shirt before he tucks it in later. Connor’s back is as strong as it ever was— there is no thirium, no bullet holes, no death staining his skin.  
  
He knows better than to expect the grief to disappear on its own. He knows that there will be days when the past month haunts them, makes them angry and irrational. There will be times when the misery rears its ugly head and threatens this beautiful thing they’ve built together.  
  
But he also knows that they’ll beat it, because they have before.  
  
And that’s all he needs to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review!


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